


They do look brighter

by hautboist



Category: Mad Men
Genre: 1980s, F/F, F/M, Family, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2018-07-19 06:22:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7348705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hautboist/pseuds/hautboist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1980, and Peggy and Stan's preciously precocious daughter has just turned 8.  Meanwhile, in Kansas, Pete hatches a scheme to track down the son he never knew - a plan which will reunite all our favourite Mad Men and their now-grown-up kids.  </p><p>Warning is due to some F-bombs and minor drug use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. They do look brighter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first-ever fanfic, in any fandom, so I really have no idea if I tagged things right. Criticisms appreciated!
> 
> Chapter title comes from a 1998 Sally Ride quote, on the view from space: "The stars don't look bigger, but they do look brighter." And the opening quote comes from an actual short story published by Ken Cosgrove in the Atlantic (online - Google it, seriously, it's hilarious - such meta wow).

**“What if, some day in the distance, a man ventures through this same, tree-studded forest, along the long-covered path Fitz and I had carved for ourselves? What would he think of us—of what we did, of who we loved, of what we wanted to be?”**

**—Kenneth Cosgrove, “Tapping a Maple on a Cold Vermont Morning,” _The Atlantic_**

*******

Beatrice Rizzo had many talents.  She knew how to tap dance, spoke decent French, and once beat her dad at chess (though, come to think of it, maybe he had let her win—but never mind that).  She was at the top of her class in mathematics _and_  spelling.  She could write her name in flawless cursive with one of her dad’s fancy ink pens, and could do cat’s cradle better than Jenny Litvin who lived down the hall.  Last year, she even won the science fair, building a bridge out of Popsicle sticks that could hold _three_  Webster’s dictionaries.  Beatrice Rizzo could do many things—but she could.  Not.  Wait.

“Is it my birthday yet?” she asked, peering into the kitchen.

“Not yet, Chief,” replied her dad, who was drawing something on her cake with a tube of blue icing—her favourite colour.

She traced her big toe along the line in between the tiles on the floor.  Then she picked her nose.  She went into her bedroom, inspected her unmade bed, shrugged, and walked back to the kitchen.  Then she asked, “How about now?”

Dad glanced up at the clock above the sink.  “Come back in thirteen minutes.”

Groaning, Beatrice pranced past the kitchen counter and stood on tiptoes to see her dad’s handiwork.  “What is it?” she asked.

Dad feigned shock with an offended gasp.  “You mean you can’t tell, String Bea-n?”

It was a game they played.  Every night when he tucked her into bed, he would call her something silly.

“Good night, Bumble Bea,” he would say.

“Good night, Paki-Stan,” she would fire back.

“I love you, Reese’s Bea-nut Butter Cup,” he would say.

She’d giggle at that one, then reply, “I love you, too, Stan-ford University.”

She looked at the blue lines curving across the cake.  “It’s a Bea-ch Ball?” she ventured.

“Nope.”  Dad scooped her into his arms and lifted her above the counter.  Now she could see: the circle she had thought was a ball, was actually a crater. 

“It’s a Bea-teor Shower!”

“Bingo.”  He lowered her down and rested his palm on her shoulder.  “Eleven minutes, Chief.  Don’t ask me again.  Didn’t your mom get you a watch for Christmas?”

Beatrice crinkled her nose.  “Yeah, but the strap is itchy,” she observed.  “Besides, I asked for roller skates.”

“Your mom was just being practical.  What were you going to do with roller skates in the winter?  It was too snowy outside to use them.”

“I could’ve waited ‘til summer,” Beatrice mumbled.

“You?  Waited?” Dad scoffed.  “Yeah, right.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes.  “What am I supposed to do for eleven whole minutes?” she bemoaned.

“You could watch TV,” Dad suggested.  “Read a book?  Play with Sputnik?”

“Sputnik’s asleep,” Beatrice pointed out, nodding at the three-legged retriever curled up beneath the counter by his water bowl. 

(Though it was Beatrice who had found Sputnik lying in the middle of the street, at death’s door after a run-in with the Litvins’ Cadillac, the pleas of “Can we keep him?” had come not from Beatrice, but from her mother.  The name, however, was all Bea’s.)

“Sputnik’s _always_  asleep,” Stan countered, which was true.  Sputnik was as lazy as an ad man after his morning whiskey.

Rolling her eyes, Beatrice knelt beside Sputnik and prodded his belly with both index fingers, as if she were playing “Chopsticks” on the piano in her grandma’s living room.  The dog opened one eye, sneezed, and shuddered back to sleep.

Every year, at 12:47 a.m. on the fifteenth of July, Beatrice’s family woke up to celebrate her birthday, down to the exact minute.  It was a ritual more sacred to her than unwrapping presents on Christmas morning.  Some years, she’d fall asleep at bedtime only to startle awake at 12:46, driven by the precise internal alarm clock that only children seem to have.  But this year, her excitement had managed to fend off drooping eyelids.  (Excitement, yes, and also a late-night bowl of Cocoa Puffs; Mom’s crusade to lure General Mills over from Dancer to McCann, though ultimately ineffectual, had allotted certain benefits.)

Now it was 12:37.

12:38.

Sputnik grumbled in his sleep.  The sound reminded Beatrice of her Uncle Gerry whenever he complained about his back.

12:39.  Beatrice  traced the word BIRTHDAY in cursive against the grain of Sputnik’s fur.

Stan crossed into the living room and switched on the TV.  The man behind the desk was speaking very solemnly about hostages in a place called Iran. 

12:40.  She’d _never_  make it to her birthday; boredom was already seeping into her bones.  She _had_  to do something.

 _Dooo dum duh-dooo do dummm…_ Beatrice began humming just loud enough for Dad to hear.  She cast him a glance to see if he recognized the tune.

Sure enough, her plan was working.  She watched her dad’s expression grow increasingly irritated, and amped up her volume, sprinkling in some lyrics: _I’d like to buy the world a Coke – dooo dum duh do-dummmm…_

Stan had had the Hilltop jingle stuck in his head for the better part of a decade.  He scowled at his daughter, crossing his arms.  “Tell you what,” he said.  “Six minutes left.  You can go wake your sister early.”

Grinning in triumph, Beatrice leapt up, stepping on Sputnik’s tail in the process (though the dog remained sleepily unfazed).  She bounded down the hall to Eleanor’s room and swung the door open like an opera diva making a grandiose entrance.  “Ellie,” she called, “wake up wake up wake _up_!”

Light from the hallway splashed onto Eleanor’s face as she rubbed her eyes.  Scrunching her nose, she peered at her sister.  “ ’Sit your birthday yet?”

“Almost.”

“Okay,” Eleanor noted, and kicked her legs out from under her bedsheet.  “Did Dad make a cake?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What’s on it?”

“Meteors.”

“Okay,” said Eleanor again, rolling up the sleeves of her Strawberry Shortcake pajamas.  “Can we go to the kitchen?”

Beatrice nodded.

Eleanor’s birthday tradition was different than Beatrice’s, because Eleanor had been born in the middle of the workday, and according to Mom, it simply wasn’t practical to drop everything in order to blow out a few candles.  So on Eleanor’s birthday every December, Dad would make chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast, and Eleanor would get to choose what Mom and Dad wore for the day.  Last year, Peggy had shown up to the Heinz pitch in one of Stan’s Hawaiian shirts, blue jeans, leg warmers, some purple Mardi Gras beads, and no fewer than sixteen bracelets.

But today was Beatrice’s day, not Eleanor’s.  It was 12:45.  As the girls entered the kitchen, Dad winked at them.  “Two minutes, Chief.  Gonna go wake your mom.”

Stan tapped on the door to his and Peggy’s bedroom.  “You up?” he called, turning the knob.

“Barely,” came her groggy reply.  “When did 12:47 become such a tall order?”

He shook his head, and strode over to the bed, leaning over her.  “Eight years, huh?” Stan murmured, tracing his index finger along her jaw. 

She half-smiled sleepily.  “If I close my eyes, I can still see the chauvinistic ass-hat I fell in love with.”

“Ah, and there’s the stuck-up stick-in-the-mud who stole my heart.”  He kissed her on the cheek.  “Let’s go.  Our _daughters_  are waiting.”

(He always said it like that, in italics, as though the fact of it still came as a surprise.  As though he constantly had to remind himself of this beautiful and unexpected reality they had created.)

Peggy shrugged into her bathrobe and followed Stan into the kitchen, stopping short as he paused in the doorframe.  “Look,” he whispered.

They watched as Beatrice guided Eleanor through a hand game she had learned at summer camp, something with clapping and waving and a catchy tune: _Down down baby, down by the roller coaster…_   The sisters’ hands—small hands, strong hands—clapped and waved in clumsy synchronicity, while Sputnik observed with the half-hearted gaze of a captive audience.

Suddenly, Beatrice leapt up.  “It’s 12:47!” she cried.  “It’s my birthday!”

There was a cake with eight candles, decorated with blue icing meteors; there was a wish with closed eyes; and a picture snapped with the SX-70 that Peggy had nabbed when Polaroid and Kodak were competing to be added to McCann’s roster.  There were presents: roller skates, finally; and a big box, bigger than Eleanor, wrapped in blue paper and tied with purple ribbon.

“What is it?” Beatrice asked, unsure how to approach the unwrapping process for something this large.

“You have to open it to find out,” Mom intoned.

“Right.”  Beatrice walked in a circle around the box, and tugged at the tails of the purple ribbon.  Then she slid her fingers under the taped-down folds of paper; something about this box—its size, its mystery—forbade her from tearing into it too hastily.  Whatever this was, it seemed to merit reverence.

And then the paper was gone, and there it was, glorious.  A telescope.

The box didn’t even have pictures of children on it, so Beatrice knew this was the real deal.  She exhaled suddenly, uncertain how long she had been holding her breath.  “Thanks,” she said softly, without looking at her parents.  Her eyes scanned the words on the box, words like DISCOVERY and GALAXY and NEBULA and ADVENTURE.

(Decades later, on an NBC special about women in space, Tom Brokaw would ask her what had inspired her to become an astronaut, and she’d think of this moment: of her parents, smiling with shy encouragement; of her sister, grabbing her in a guerrilla hug; of Sputnik, nosing through the crumpled blue wrapping paper; and of the sky outside the living room window, black and distant but somehow welcoming.) 

“What did you wish for?” Eleanor asked.

“For Mom and Dad to be married,” Beatrice answered, then clapped her hand over her mouth.  She looked up at her parents, who were sitting with expressions of mild shock on the sofa.  “Sorry.  I forgot—I mean, you’re not supposed to say wishes—I mean, I know why you’re not, and I know you love each other, and it’s okay.  It’s just, remember when Penny’s dad went away?  And he didn’t come back, and Penny is really sad.  And I’m just scared—I mean, not scared, just—I want you guys to _promise_ _._ To be here.  Always.”

“Well, that came out of left field,” said Peggy, smoothing the creases in her bathrobe.  “Beatrice, honey, we’re not going anywhere.  We _promise_.Scout’s honour.”  She held up three fingers to prove her point.

Stan looked to Beatrice, then to Eleanor, then to Peggy.  “Eh,” he said with a shrug.  “Let’s get married.”

“Really?” Beatrice exclaimed, at the same time Peggy said, _“What?”_

Shrugging again, Stan gestured broadly around the living room.  “Peg, we live together and love each other and are raising two human children together.  Let’s do it, if only for the tax benefits.”

“Need I remind you that _you_  were the lawless hippie opposed to marriage in the first place?”

“That was years ago,” Stan noted.  “We’ve got a groove going now.  We’re a family.  We jive.  Why the hell _not_  get married, this far into the game?”

“Language,” Beatrice reprimanded.

“Oh,” said Peggy.  She tightened the sash on her robe, and ran a hand nervously through her hair.  “Well, I suppose I have to think about it.”

“Seriously?” Stan and Beatrice said in unison.

“I mean, we’ve had _this_ —this _system_ —for so long.  We’re good like this.  We work.”

“We'll still work,” Stan assured.  “What will a piece of paper change?”

“Ha,” Peggy laughed drily, because that was the exact argument she had used eight years ago, when they had agreed to raise an unplanned child together, and _she_  had been the one to propose.  Throwing her hands up in surrender, she rolled her eyes.  “Fine,” she said, “fine.  But I’m keeping my last name.”

Stan winked.  “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

By 1:22 a.m., the telescope was set up on the roof of their building.  Since it wasn’t a kids’ version, it couldn’t be adjusted very low, and Beatrice had to stand on a phonebook to reach.  She closed one eye and pressed the other up to the lens. 

It was odd, this feeling: powerful; pioneering.  The endless lights of New York City could hide the stars from everyone else’s eyes, but she—Beatrice Rizzo, a girl of many talents— _she_  could see them.  They were far away.  She wondered if they would seem bigger from the windows of a spaceship, or if they would only seem brighter, and more beautiful.


	2. The Last Will and Testament of Peter Campbell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw thanks for the feedback on chapter 1! Hope you like this one :) Bonus points if you catch all 3 Community easter eggs.

I, Peter Campbell, a resident of the state of Kansas and county of Sedgwick; and being of sound mind and memory, do hereby make, publish, and declare this to be my last will and testament, thereby revoking and making null and void any and all other last will and testaments heretofore made by me.

I give to the persons named below the following specific bequests, if owned by me at the time of my death:

 

  1. To my daughter, Tamsin Campbell,



I give: My art collection

 

  1. To my nephew, Andrew Campbell III,



I give: My golden cufflinks, and my Montblanc 149.

 

I give to the persons named below, all of the residue and remainder of my gross estate, real and personal, wherever situated, after payment of all my just debts, expenses, taxes and specific bequests, in the percentages set forth below.  These shares shall be distributed outright and free of trust.

 

  1. Name: Trudy Campbell



Relation: Spouse

Percentage: 33.3%

 

  1. Name: Tamsin Campbell



Relation: Daughter

Percentage: 33.3%

 

  1. Name: Unknown



Relation: Son

Percentage: 33.3%

 

The latter beneficiary should be located through the aid of a private investigator, and notified of his status as a beneficiary of this Will.  The biological mother of said beneficiary, one Margaret Olson, Creative Director, McCann Erickson Agency of Manhattan, may be contacted toward this end.

I nominate my spouse, Trudy Campbell, and my brother, Andrew Campbell, Jr., to be the co-executors of this Will.  If one of them is unable or unwilling to serve or to continue to serve as co-executor, the other one shall serve alone.

In witness whereof, I, the undersigned testator, declare that I sign and execute this instrument on the date written below as my last will and testament and further declare that I sign it willingly, that I execute it as my free and voluntary act for the purposes expressed in this document, and that I am of sound mind and memory, and under no constraint or undue influence.

 

Peter Campbell

July 11, 1980

 

 

“There,” Pete said, crossing the T in his signature with the satisfying _zip_  of his Montblanc across the paper.  It was thick paper, off-white, and textured with the slightest grain, so that the curving C of his last name hitched the tiniest bit before tailing into an A. 

These were details he would never have noticed Before.  The heart attack had opened his eyes to the smallest of things: the texture on a piece of paper.  The stitching on the seat cushions of a Lear Jet Model 23 that perfectly matched the precise colour of the leather.  The gentle fluttering of Trudy’s eyelids just before she woke up to prepare breakfast.  The crescent moon of Tammy’s right thumbnail, which she kept clipped slightly longer than her other fingernails, because it helped her play guitar.

Before, he hadn’t even _known_  that his daughter played guitar.  Piano lessons had been pushed from an early age, but guitar—well, Tammy had come to it on her own.  And not rock-and-roll guitar—nothing of the sort.  Instead: Bach.  Vivaldi.  Tammy’s slightly-longer right thumbnail caressing careful chords from the belly of this mahogany beast.

A thing like that.

Dugal peered over his bifocals at the will, nodding in the ambiguous way that lawyers tend to nod when assessing a situation.  “Peter,” he said, pressing the tips of his fingers together, “is your wife aware of the terms of your last will and testament?”

“Well, considering we just now dredged it up, you and I—why, no, I should say she isn’t aware.”  He smiled at his own half-a-joke.

“You’ve never before discussed with her your intentions to bequeath one-third of your estate to an illegitimate son you’ve never met.” 

“She is aware that I have a son.”  It was something they’d talked about in the early days of their reconciliation.  They’d talked about endless everythings in those days—regrets and fears and, especially, confessions.  It had felt like they were meeting each other for the first time, ten years after the fact.

“But,” Dugal insisted, “she is not aware that this son is eligible to receive in excess of twenty million dollars from your estate.”

Pete chuckled.  “You wanna be the one to tell her?”

Dugal raised one eyebrow.  “Peter, I strongly recommend—and I can’t emphasize this enough—that you alert the co-executor of your will to its contents at some point prior to your death.  Which, as you have recently learned, is not necessarily distant.”

“That’s why I hired you,” Pete said, clapping Dugal on the shoulder as he stood to leave.  “Such incorrigible cheer.  Good afternoon!” 

“There’s one more thing,” said Dugal, holding up a hand.  “I suggest you begin the process of locating your son.”

“Now?”  Pete lowered his hand from the doorknob.  “Whatever for?”

“You needn’t make contact,” Dugal clarified.  “Simply have an investigator look into his whereabouts, so that, should circumstances arise, the inheritance might be distributed with as little delay as possible.  The way you currently have this will set up leaves your estate vulnerable to fraud.  Anyone could claim to be your son.  Once you know the boy’s name, at least, we can revise the will.  Specificity is key.”

“Specificity is key,” Pete echoed.  “Well.  Thank you, Terrence, for your advice.”

“Any time,” Dugal replied.

At home, Pete poured himself a glass of ice water and sat down on the sofa.  Guitar music tumbled from Tammy’s bedroom upstairs, something dark and raucous and Latin-sounding.  (“Albéniz,” she would tell him at dinner that night, inflecting the composer’s name with a flawless Spanish accent.)

Tammy was almost fifteen now.  She had a crush on Alan Alda and a knack for pissing off her mother.  She wore black most days, preferred trousers to skirts, and snuck out with her fellow black-clad friends to see _The Shining_ at the Augusta last month.  But when she wasn’t pushing Trudy’s buttons, she was upstairs in her bedroom, practicing.  She was so dedicated.  Pete hadn’t noticed Before, but now, it was all he could hear, and it was breathtaking.

Trudy wouldn’t be home for another hour.  She was taking summer classes at Wichita State—only needed three more credits to finish her healthcare administration degree.  It had been part of the terms of their reconciliation: that he let her find something she cared about, and let her pursue it autonomously.  She had been taking classes since 1973, but only decided on a major a couple years ago.  Healthcare, because she liked helping people; and administration, because she liked bossing people around.  (Her words, not his—though he did agree.  It _was_  rather perfect.)

He switched on the TV.  That Cable News Network was living up to Ted Turner’s promise: “We won’t be signing off until the world ends.”  When CNN had launched the previous month, Pete had been skeptical: around-the-clock news coverage seemed a bit overkill.  What could they possibly have to talk about for twenty-four straight hours?  But then, it _was_  1980; there would always be a lot to talk about.Earlier that day, one of the hostages had been released due to health problems.

“Jesus,” Pete muttered as the anchor delivered the update.  “Lucky bastard.”

He knew, even as he said it, that the guy was anything but lucky.  He had been held captive for 250 days, and had evidently been driven to a point of ill health.  But then, fifty-two other hostages still awaited their fates.  If this one man was unlucky, then what of the others?

(One of the diplomats in that room had flown Lear Jet, and shaken Pete’s hand.  The two men had shared a meal.  How odd, the paths their lives had taken since then.)

“Dad?” Tammy called, her footsteps growing closer as she came downstairs.  “You’re home?”

“Yeah,” Pete replied.  “Living room!”

Tammy appeared in the doorframe, leaning beside a potted plant.  “How was your visit with Dugal the Great and Terrible?”

“Great,” said Pete, “and terrible.”  He patted the seat on the sofa beside him.  “Come sit.”

Tammy sat, and Pete changed the channel to CBS.  _M*A*S*H_  reruns.  Tammy blushed when Hawkeye strolled onscreen.

Before, this would have been the unlikeliest of scenes; Tammy had long been aloof from both her parents.  But the heart attack had changed that.  Now, she rested her head on Pete’s shoulder as they watched the 4077th save the day.

When the end credits rolled, Pete gaped.  _Written by Paul Kinsey_ , it said.

“Well I’ll be.”

Tammy sat up straight and peered at her dad quizzically.  “What?”

“Nothing,” said Pete, rubbing his forehead.  “Just, I know the writer for that episode.”

“Cool,” said Tammy.  “Cool cool cool.  When’s Mom getting home?”

Pete squinted at his wristwatch.  “Hmm.  She’s running late.  Probably she went for lunch with her study group.”

“Oh.  ’Kay.”  Tammy drew her knees up and hugged them, tucked under her chin.  “Well, I’m gonna go practice.”

“Tammy, wait.”  Pete pressed his hand on her shoulder, a little harder than he’d meant to.  “Sorry,” he said.  “There’s something I have to tell you.”

Tammy raised an eyebrow.  “Yeah?”

Pete hesitated, searching for the right words.  “A long time ago, I was—seeing—another woman.”

“Like, before you met Mom?”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh.”  Tammy nodded, understanding.  Remembering.  “Right.”

“Basically, Tammy, what I’m trying to say is”—he paused, shutting his eyes—“you have a brother.”

“Oh,” Tammy said.  Then again: “Oh.”

They were silent for a while.

“How old is he?” Tammy asked finally.

“I suppose he’d be nineteen.”

“Did you ever meet him?”

Pete shook his head.

“ _Will_  you ever meet him?”  Then, quieter, almost inaudible: “Can I meet him?”

This surprised Pete.  “Well, I suppose you can, someday.  We have to find him first.  His mother gave him up for adoption.”

Tammy lowered her eyes and asked, “Who’s his mother?”

“She was a secretary at my first job.  We were young and stupid.  I was selfish.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”  Tammy looked up then, holding her breath.

Pete folded his hands in his lap.  “Well,” he began, “I’d like to leave the boy some money in my will.”

“Why?” Tammy asked.  “You don’t even know him.”

“Don’t worry,” Pete assured.  “You and your mother will be well taken care of.”

Tammy shook her head.  “That’s not what I meant.”

Pete knew exactly what she meant.  Why, indeed?  How could he possibly explain to his daughter that if Peggy was a ghost to him, their son was the ghost of a ghost?  Haunting him by the sheer fact of his existence.  A mystery, a legacy, an unknown. 

“Because,” Pete said, “this is my chance to do the right thing, for once.”

Tammy nodded, and he knew she understood.

“You’d really like to meet him?” Pete asked.

“I think so.”

“Okay,” said Pete.  Then again: “Okay.”

Tammy withdrew upstairs.  Minutes later, he heard it: the idyllic churning of guitar music, plucked by a right thumbnail kept slightly longer than the rest. 


	3. Smoke gets in your nose (and it smells bad and then you can't breathe)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is slightly pointless, but I've been having fun exploring Bea's voice. Cute, no? :)

Beatrice picked out her very best dress to wear to her parents’ wedding, which took place on a Thursday afternoon.  It was two different shades of blue, with a big white ribbon that tied around the back.  The last time she’d worn it was a few months ago, when she’d graduated from the second grade.

Mom took the 4 train from her office during her lunch break, and met Dad and Bea and Eleanor on the steps outside City Hall.  (There were eleven steps total, if you counted the top one.)  They met Aunt Joan and Kevin inside, because Aunt Joan needed to visit City Hall anyway, to get a film permit.  Aunt Joan was the Witness, which meant that she had to watch the wedding and sign her name to prove that it happened For Real.

“Can I be a witness, too?” Beatrice asked Aunt Joan.

The answer, despite her recent birthday, proved disappointing: she was too young.

Beatrice _loved_ Aunt Joan.  She loved Aunt Joan’s red hair, and her bright lipstick, and her seemingly bottomless purse, from which she would procure little plastic-wrapped sweets which she would then pass under the table to Beatrice and Eleanor, and it was like a secret they shared, the three of them.

She liked Kevin well enough.  He was pretty shy.  He was fourteen years old and knew how to do a magic trick where he could guess what card you picked.  Also, one time he got to be on TV.  It was a commercial for Sears.

After the ceremony, they all went to get ice cream, and Dad even let them get sprinkles on top.  “It’s a special occasion,” he explained.

They walked around City Hall Park for a bit after that, chocolate-vanilla-swirl melting sticky-sweet down the sides of their cones.  When they passed by the courthouse, Beatrice paused to count the steps.  (Twenty-nine.)

“Hey,” Kevin stage-whispered, nudging Beatrice with his elbow.  “Look at this.”  Surreptitiously, he stuck his hand in his pocket and revealed a single cigarette cupped in his palm.

Beatrice shook her head.  “That’s bad,” she admonished.  “Because then you breathe in all the smoke, and it gets in your nose and your lungs, and it smells bad, and you _die_.”

“I don’t smoke them,” Kevin said defensively.  “I nick them from the grown-ups, so _they_ can’t smoke them, either.  This one’s from my mom’s purse.”

Beatrice decided this was a very admirable cause.  She nodded her approval.

Eleanor, who had fallen behind, skipped to catch up to the big kids.  “Kevin,” she said, “how come Luca’s not here?”

Kevin shrugged, and tossed his head a little, so his white-blond hair that was a-little-too-long got out of his eyes.  “He’s in Italy for a business trip.”

“ _I_ wanna go to Italy,” said Beatrice.  “And see the Leaning Tower.  And eat lots of pizza.”

“And visit Luca,” Eleanor added.  "He's nice."

“He’ll be back soon,” assured Kevin.  Luca was Kevin’s step-dad.  He was a Fashion Designer, and was also a Very Handsome Man.  (This, according to Mom.)

Suddenly, a thought occurred to Beatrice.  She sprinted ahead to where the grown-ups were walking, Aunt Joan balancing a cigarette between her fingers in the most elegant way.  “Mom, Dad,” she said urgently.  “You guys have to go to Italy!”

“Why’s that, Chief?” Stan asked, pausing to kneel beside his daughter.

Beatrice gestured broadly, as though the answer were obvious.  “For your honeymoon!”

Peggy stopped in her tracks then, and spun around.  “We don’t have time for a honeymoon, sweetheart.  I’ve gotta get back to work in an hour.”

“Hey Peg,” Stan began, brushing stray grass off his knees as he stood, “think you can get the weekend off?”

She hesitated.  “I suppose,” she said, “but only if Chevrolet goes well this afternoon.  Why?  What are you thinking?”

Stan shrugged.  “We could drive out to Ken’s farm.  It’s been a few years since the girls have seen Eddie.”

“Ooh, can we can we _can we_?”  Beatrice jumped up and down, clapping her hands.  Eddie’s farm was _so_ cool.  There were horses and cows and lots of maple trees.  Also, a goat named Henry that lived inside the Cosgroves’ house and acted like a dog.

“Sure,” said Peggy.  “ _If_ Chevy likes the pitch.”

“They’ll like the pitch,” Joan predicted, and winked at Beatrice.  “I wouldn’t worry.”

This made Beatrice jump even more.  Smirking, Stan shook his head.  “No more sugar for you today, Chief.”

They walked all the way to the subway station, and said goodbye to Aunt Joan and Kevin, who had to go because they were Very Busy, As Usual.  Then they got on the train to Mom’s office, because it was on the way home.

Up-up-up the elevator (Beatrice, in a generous spirit, let Eleanor press the button), and Patti the Receptionist greeted them with lollipops (which Dad intercepted, reiterating his earlier No More Sugar edict).  Down the hall to Mom’s office.  There was a green sign on the door that said CREATIVE DIRECTOR.  Next to the door, there was a bench.  And on the bench, there was a man.

The man was bald and looked Very Important.  Mom, meanwhile, looked Very Scared.

“Ms. Olson,” Lauren the Secretary said brightly.  “Peter Campbell from Lear Jet to see you, ma’am.”

(While Mom and Dad were Very Distracted, Beatrice peered into the purse Mom had set down on Lauren's desk, and nicked a cigarette.)


	4. The Girl from Ipanema

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: minor drug use, implied character death, mention of sex, and some foul language.

“What.  The.  Fuck.”

“You’ve seriously never seen _The Muppet Show_ before?”  Bobby nudged his sister with his elbow. 

“I’ve seen it,” Sally confirmed.  “Just, never while high.”

“But that’s the only way to watch it.”

“Unlike _some_ people, I do more with my life than sit around smoking joints and watching puppet shows.”

“Hey,” Bobby protested, “who’s the one getting shipped off to Sinai?”

Sally inhaled, balancing the joint between her lips, then passed it to her brother.  They sat in silence for a long time, listening to the Swedish Chef’s incomprehensible soliloquy.

Finally, Bobby sat forward, leaning his elbows on his knees.  “I’m not going to die, you know,” he reminded Sally.  “It’s just training exercises with the Egyptians.  Three months, then I’m home.”

“Yep.”  Sally popped the final P like the snap of a Hubba Bubba bubble, and watched smoke slither out from her mouth.  “Three months,” she repeated, “then you’re home.”

(Glen hadn’t come home.  Sally had expected such, of course, as she’d clutched the telephone he hadn’t answered: Glen was a statistic; a likelihood.  But expectation and hope can often take opposite forms.

Besides, that had been nearly a decade ago.  War had been a constant reality then; now, it was just a distant whisper out of El Salvador and a conspiratorial wink from Libya.

So, statistically, Bobby would return from Sinai safely and decidedly alive.  Sally expected such.

And yet, expectation and fear can often take opposite forms.)

“Bork bork bork!” exclaimed the Swedish Chef.

“Bork bork bork!” echoed Bobby.

Sally exploded in laughter.  It choked in her throat, where she could still taste the bitterness of smoke; it shook her shoulders and rattled her ribcage and tightened her stomach until she almost couldn’t breathe.  Her jaw ached from laughing; her face flushed.

Sensing an audience, Bobby leapt off the couch, waving his arms.  “Bork bork bork!  Bork bork bork!” 

And that is the scene Elena walked in on, grocery bags clutched tight as she tugged the key out of the lock.  “Having fun?” she chided, setting the bag on the counter.  A lemon rolled out as she did, and skidded across the floor, a fact which only made Sally laugh even harder.

Bobby turned to face Elena, and took a grandiose bow.  Two broad strides forward, and he took her hand in his, raising it to his lips.  “You must be _her_ ,” he observed.  “You must be the inimitable—the nonpareil—the Girl from Ipanema.”

“Such flattery,” Elena uttered, singsong.  “Tell your brother I’m taken, would you, dear?”

Sally forced the laughter to stop, taking long, loud breaths until she calmed.  Ears still ringing, she stood unsteadily and, she was surprised to find, a bit sheepishly.  “Bobby,” she said softly, nervously, “this is Elena.  Elena, Bobby.”

Elena bent over to pick up the fallen lemon, and took the opportunity to feign a regal curtsy.  “ _Piacere_.”

(The way she rolled her R’s still made Sally swoon.)

In her first year at Stanford, Sally had kissed precisely four boys and three girls.  She found that, while she’d enjoyed all seven kisses well enough, she’d rather liked the girls’ a bit better.  But she never dated, and definitely never loved.  Love was a thing for people who trusted, and—as she’d learned long ago, standing in the doorway to the Rosens’ apartment—trusting was a fool’s errand. 

A double-major in anthropology and Spanish (including a year abroad in Barcelona, to make up for the lost trip to Madrid), followed by a Ph.D. in archaeology and three years of fieldwork in Rio—but she didn’t actually meet Elena until returning to L.A. last year to finish her thesis.  They met at the UCLA library: Sally, rewriting her findings on the Tupunambá tribe; Elena, sketching small and intricate flowers in the margins of random books.  A petunia on page 330 of _On the Origin of Species_ ; a bed of pansies lining the title page of _Catch-22._ Their eyes met across the shared table; the next day, Sally found a bouquet of poppies in Chapter Four of _The Man-Eating Myth_.

Elena was unlike anyone Sally had ever met.  She turned cartwheels in the middle of the crosswalk, and wore winter hats in the heat of July. Her father had been the Italian ambassador to Brazil, where he’d fallen in love with a pretty Japanese dancer who was definitely not his wife.  Their daughter was stunningly reckless, a marble-hewn hurricane sculpted by Michelangelo himself: black hair that fell in waves past her waist, piercing brown eyes and an irresistible smile, not to mention the myriad languages—no fewer than five—that sambaed off her tongue and enchanted all who listened.

First, Sally fell in love with the idea of Elena, of this woman who personified the freedom Sally had yearned for all her life, the freedom she had watched wither and collapse, dead, from her mother’s palms.  But at some point between their first kiss and their fifteenth, the idea of the woman and the woman herself became one and the same.

It frightened Sally, and made her feel embarrassed and uncertain.  But it also made her heart race in a way she’d never known it could: untethered.  It felt like falling; it felt like flying.  It was exhilarating.  It made her smile.

Bobby had been dodgy at first, when he’d asked to visit Sally before his deployment, and she’d revealed the news.  But then Sally reminded him that the Democrats had just passed a gay rights platform, and didn’t he fancy himself a Progressive?   (She suspected that this fact had been designed to piss off both Dad and Henry in one fell swoop, but allowed her brother’s political leanings, however sincere they may or may not be, to work in her favour.)

She was pleased to find that he behaved like a perfect gentleman all through dinner, even though he was clearly still buzzed by the time they ate dessert (the wobbling green Jell-O had him completely mesmerized).  While Elena cleared the dishes, Sally fetched the spare sheets from the hall closet, and made up the couch like a bed. 

She nodded toward Bobby.  “Toss me that pillow?”

He obliged.  “I like her,” he stated.

Sally smiled without realizing it.  “Me too,” she said as she stuffed the pillow into a pillowcase.  “I think we’ll go out to Vermont next month.  The Cosgroves’ place.”

Bobby flopped face-first onto the freshly outfitted sofa.  “Why?”

Sally shrugged.  “Just to get away.  Something nice to do, the two of us.”

“Cool.”  He rolled over to face the ceiling, and crossed his legs at the knees.  “Have fun.”  Then, of course—of _course_ —he had to ruin the moment.  “So,” said Bobby pointedly, “are you two going to have wild lesbian sex tonight?”

“You _asshole_!”  Sally hurled the pillow back at her brother, hitting him square in the face.  He toppled back, pretending to be hurt, writhing in clownish pain.  And for the second time that night, Sally found herself laughing uncontrollably. 


	5. Someone Else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been ages since I've posted, so here's something super short until I have time for more. Thanks a million for your nice comments and kudos and things <3

Peggy thought, as she sat across from Peter Campbell listening distantly to his request, about the day Eleanor was born.

Eleanor’s mother had been seventeen; her father, a politician’s son who wanted to keep things hushed.  Peggy and Stan had gotten the call from the adoption agency early in the morning: the teenager had gone into labour, three months premature.

Newborn Beatrice had been small, fitting curled in Stan’s open palms—but Eleanor was smaller.  “She’s a peanut,” Stan had mused, gazing at their daughter through the glass window of the NICU nursery.  “A thimble.  A penny and a dime.”

Peggy had chuckled at that, and tightened her grip on three-year-old Beatrice’s small, warm hand; and she thought about the day this peanut of a baby would grow up and ask where she came from, and Peggy would have to say, _You’re not mine.  Not ours.  Someone else’s._

Peter cleared his throat.  “So, really, any information you might have—the name of the nurse who helped you, for example, or even just the name of the hospital—would really get us on the right track.”  He blinked hopefully, craning his neck a millimeter farther with each second of silence that passed.

One.

Two.

“Peggy?” Pete prodded.

Six.

Seven.

With a sharp breath, she reached across her desk for her legal pad and tore off a sheet.  _ST. MARY’S HOSPITAL, BROOKLYN,_ she scrawled, and pushed it toward Pete.  The paper crinkled under her fingers.

“That’s all I know.”

Pete nodded his thanks, and folded the sheet crisply into his shirt pocket.  “Thank you.  Truly.”

She tilted her head toward the door.

He held up his hands defensively.  “I’ll go, I’ll go.  Now, are you _sure_ you don’t want to meet him?”

Peggy nodded.

“And what if _he_ wants to meet _you_?”

One.

Two.

Three.

“I don’t know.”


	6. Genesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey friends! thanks for sticking with this story even though it takes me ages to add chapters. here's a brand-new character for you. he's the result of a lot of research I've been doing on 1980's Jewish life, for another writing project I have in the works. I'll suggest anything by Leonard Cohen as a good reading soundtrack here <3
> 
> don't worry - the next chapter will get us back to the characters we all know and love. this chapter's pretty self-indulgent because Caleb is my own, but I think he's interesting and likable, and hope you think so too :)

It all started when Caleb Singer fell in love with a girl called Yael.

Yael Tauber was her name.  She lived in the apartment above the flower shop on the corner of 10th and 51st, with her mother and father and four little brothers.  She was smart, and had kind grey eyes that sparkled like faraway planets.  She was also very tall, which suited Caleb because he was tall as well.

He fell in love with her at synagogue, when he heard her sing.  There was a wall that separated the men from the women in the congregation, and the women were forbidden from singing, because _kol b’isha erva_ , “the voice of woman is nakedness,” as it is written in _Shir HaShirim_ , the Song of Songs: “For your voice is sweet and your face is comely.” But Yael was so tall, he could spy the top of her head when they all rose to sing the _Kiddush_ , and he knew it was her voice that sounded like birds and bells and everything joyful and warm, floating fearlessly through the rumble of the men’s chant.

Caleb was a painter; he loved to paint.  And he imagined how he would paint Yael’s voice: yellow and blue and white, a cloud rising, ever-kinetic, swirling, toward the ear of G-d, who deserved to hear the voice He had wrought.

After the service, he saw her mother berating her with a stern forefinger, reminding her of those words: _kol b’isha erva_.  Caleb had never understood this law, that man may not listen to the singing voice of woman, lest her voice arouse in him unseemly feelings.  But now he understood the magic a woman’s voice may wreak: not arousal—G-d forgive him for even entertaining the possibility—no; _enchantment_ , it was.  Yael’s voice had enchanted him, like a siren’s.  It was a beautiful voice, and a brave voice—terribly brave—for the singing voice of woman may not be heard by man; but Yael Tauber?  She let her voice be heard, unafraid.

He was eighteen; she was seventeen; and he resolved that he would marry her, so she could be a Singer in truth as well as in name.

Caleb Singer followed all the rules.  He bought gifts for the entire Tauber family, including the four small brothers; he prepared a speech, practiced in front of his mirror every day for two weeks; and he asked Mr. Tauber for his daughter’s hand in marriage.

“Caleb,” said Mr. Tauber.  “My family is flattered by your request, and my dear Yael thinks very highly of you.  She says you are one of the brightest boys in _yeshiva_ , and that you did her a kindness when she lost her schoolbooks on the bus, and you lent her yours for the class you share.”

Caleb wasn’t sure what to say, so he shrugged, blushing.

At this, Mr. Tauber bit his lip and shook his head.  “I’m afraid I cannot allow my daughter to become engaged to you.”

“Why?” Caleb asked, struggling to keep the edge out of his voice.  His heart was beating fast; his face flushed red.

“Because,” Mr. Tauber explained, in the patient voice of a scholarly man, “you are not a Jew.”

Now, it should be noted that Caleb Singer was uncertain about many things in his life.  For example, he was uncertain of his future: to go to university and study art; or to work in his father’s charcuterie; or to abandon both obvious paths, make _Aliyah_ , and become a soldier in the Holy Land?  He also was uncertain about his past—the biological parents he never knew, two anonymous gentiles who, for whatever reasons, could not give him the love and kindness and _home_ that his adoptive parents had provided unabashedly and unconditionally.

But there were two things he did know, with resolute certainty: Caleb Singer was madly in love with Yael Tauber; and he was absolutely, definitely, Jewish.

He had been circumcised, and blessed in the _mikveh_ when he was only an infant of a few days old; he had been given the name Caleb, and had become a _bar mitzvah_ , and had read from the _Torah_ in a steady voice on that day, and afterwards his mother had told him, with tears in her eyes, that she was proud.  He believed in G-d—the Holy One, _Adonai_ , blessed be He—and worshipped dutifully three times a day.  He wore the _kippah_ and _payot_ ; he never ate together meat and dairy; and he knew well the darkness of his people’s past, dark as the numbers inked on his parents’ forearms.

But here was Mr. Tauber, telling him that he was not a Jew.  And suddenly, this thing that Caleb Singer had known and trusted all his life, seemed fragile and insignificant.

He went home, heartbroken, and kissed his mother on the cheek.  “Am I a Jew?” he asked her.

“Do you believe in _HaShem_ our G-d?”

“Of course I do.”

She nodded then, and wiped a tear off her son’s face with a calloused thumb.  “Then you are a Jew.”

They sat in silence for a time, and Caleb watched as his mother rinsed the dishes from dinner.  Finally, he cleared his throat.  “I’m leaving.”

“Very well,” said his mother, “but be back before dark.”

“No,” Caleb said firmly.  “Leaving here.  Home.  Leaving— _this_.”  He gestured vaguely, frustratedly, at himself, the corkscrew _payot_ that framed his face, the fringes of _tallit_ that hung like pinstripes beneath the hem of his shirt. 

Mrs. Singer turned off the faucet, and stacked the remaining dishes in the corner of the sink.  She crossed the kitchen and wrapped her son in a hug.  She smelled like books and rosemary.

“Very well,” she said again.  “You are a man; this is your right.”

“I—I know I can’t come back,” Caleb said tightly, in half a whisper.  “I know the rules.”

“Oh _Bärchen_ ,” Mrs. Singer murmured, “you will always have a home with us.”  She kissed Caleb’s forehead.  “Now go tell your father.  He’s in his study.  Together, we’ll make a plan.”

And that is how Caleb Singer found himself standing in front of a woman called Patti, who told him to wait just a minute, Ms. Olson would be right with him.  He clutched his portfolio close to his chest, all the paintings and art he had prepared, and thought about Yael’s voice to make him feel brave.

This was his third interview; the first two hadn’t exactly been rollicking successes.  This world was new to him, demanding that he shake hands with women, and view their hair uncovered, and hear their voices sing on the radio.  (Though he blushed to admit it, he rather liked Blondie.)  There was a cafe near his apartment that sold sandwiches with ham _and_ cheese.  At his first interview, he had expressed surprise that Dancer expected its employees to work whenever they were needed, even if it meant coming in on a Saturday.  “The Sabbath?” he had asked, incredulous.

A bald man with a serious face swept through the waiting room and pressed the elevator call button.

"Goodbye now, Mr. Campbell," Patti said cheerily. The man waved.

Patti dialed a number on her phone, nodded and  _mm-hmm_ 'd, then hung up. "Mr. Singer?” Patti called.  “Ms. Olson will see you now.  Just down the hall.”

“Thank you,” Caleb said.  He followed the hallway until reaching a door with a green sign that said CREATIVE DIRECTOR.  He thought about the words Abraham spoke in the Book of Genesis, when he was called upon by G-d, and tested with the sacrifice of his son: הִנֵּנִי— _Hineini_.  Here I am.

He raised his hand, and knocked.


	7. Tintinnabulation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grad school is over forever (!!!) and I'm back to this story. thanks for sticking with it! hope to work on it more consistently this summer :) 
> 
> Margaret Crane is a real person and a literal hero: http://www.smithsonianmag.com/smithsonian-institution/unknown-designer-first-home-pregnancy-test-getting-her-due-180956684/

The goat’s full name was His Royal Majesty, King Henry the Eighth, Rex Angliæ et Franciæ et Dominus Hiberniæ—but Cynthia had decided, unilaterally, that just “Henry” would do. 

“That’s ridiculous,” Eddie had objected.

“Absurd,” Ken had echoed.

“Preposterous.”  (Eddie.)

“Obscene!”  (Ken.)

“ _Boys_ ,” Cynthia had chided, which shut them both up.  “I don’t care if his name is full name is Henry Goddamn Kissinger.  We’re calling him Henry.  _Just_ Henry.”

Just-Henry lived a life of luxury.  Born a runt, Henry had been bullied by his two bigger brothers, until Eddie insisted on the goat’s rescue.  Now, Henry had his own bed by the fireplace, and wore a bright red collar with a small bell sewn on, that jingled whenever he ran around the house chasing a ball Eddie had thrown.  The bell annoyed Ken, especially when he was writing; but then he’d turn and see the bright smile on his son’s face, and he wouldn’t mind the bell so much anymore.

The truth was, Henry reminded Ken of—well, of himself.  Smaller than the others; lankier; bookish.  Constantly hectored by Harry and Pete.  But smarter, too—and oh, was that goat smart.  Begging for scraps at the kitchen table, when inevitably refused, Henry would jog a lap around the cabin (hooves tapping, staccato, on the wood floor) and return to the kitchen having adopted a completely new demeanour: ears once perked, now floppy; head now tilted to the side.  As if _this_ version of Henry might be more successful on the begging front, where the other Henry had failed.  Cynthia took to calling this routine “Other Goat,” and it amused her endlessly.

The thing about the Cosgroves, even though you might not know it from looking, was that they were extraordinarily wealthy.  They lived in a small cabin in the woods outside Burlington, and operated an inn just down the road, and grew apples in the fall and tapped maple trees in the winter.  But between Ken’s four book deals and Cynthia’s family estate, Eddie Cosgrove stood to inherit a fortune rivalling the Du Ponts’. 

Eddie didn’t know it though; not yet.  At a month shy of twelve, his priorities were as follows: _Battle of the Planets_ , Mom’s chocolate cake, and Henry the goat—in no particular order.

When the phone rang, Eddie jumped to answer it.  “Cosgrove residence, Edward speaking,” he said crisply, as Mom had demonstrated.

“Hey Eddie,” said a woman.  “It’s Peggy Olson.  Is your dad home?”

“Uh-huh,” Eddie replied, and cupped a hand over the receiver.  “DAD?” he yelled.  “IT’S PEGGY!”

“Pegs?” Ken greeted, a smile in his voice, as he picked up the receiver in his office.  “It’s great to hear from you.”

“Sure has been a while, hasn’t it?”  She paused, observing the barely-audible breaths of a twelve-year-old child.  “Eddie, you still there?”

“Oh, come on, buddy, we talked about this,” Ken groaned.  “Hang up.  Now!”

“Sorry, Dad.”  _Click_.  Then, seconds later, a rubber ball tossed tumbling down the hallway, heralding Henry’s telltale jingle.

“Sorry about that.”

Peggy laughed.  “It’s fine.  He’s well?  And you and Cynthia?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ken confirmed, nodding even though she couldn’t see.  “Actually—and I’m not really supposed to say yet—but the guys at Paramount greenlighted my screenplay.”

“Congratulations!”

“Ah, nothing’s in writing yet.”

“So what?  It’s not everyday you write a book that gets turned into a movie.”

“Only to get panned by critics.”

“Who cares?  So long as it sells tickets.”

“ _There’s_ the ad exec I know,” Ken chuckled.  “How’s it going with you?”

“Good, good.  Beatrice just turned eight.”

“Send my love?”

“Of course.”  Peggy smiled.  “And I hired a new illustrator today, if you can believe it.”

“I thought McCann was moving away from art.  Photography is the future, and all that.”

“I thought so, too,” Peggy conceded.  “But the kid’s talented.  His stuff isn’t commercial.  It’s raw.  He has no training—not even a college degree.  It’s just— _natural_.  I think something really good could come of it.”

“I don’t doubt it.” 

“Listen, Ken,” said Peggy, shifting the receiver from her right ear to her left.  “I just saw Joan today at—oh!  Well, I suppose that’s news, then.  Stan and I got married today.”

“It’s about damn time,” Ken chided.  “Jesus, Peggy, way to bury the lede.”

“Sorry.  I’d forgotten, if I’m honest.  It’s been a long day—and it’s not like it changes anything much.”

“Well, congratulations,” Ken said earnestly.

Peggy nodded, even though he couldn’t see.  “Thanks.”

“You were saying about Joan?”

“Right.  She was our witness.  And afterwards, we took the kids for ice cream, and we got to talking, and she mentioned that Warner-Chilcott is looking to sack BBDO from their e.p.t. campaign.”

“E-P-T…?”

“Early Pregnancy Test.  Little chemist’s kit, fits in a pill box.  Been on the market two, three years?”  Peggy glanced at the notepad she had filled with praise for the invention: how it put women, not doctors, in charge of their health and their privacy.  How it enabled them to make informed decisions, sooner.  How it protected them from shame, misinformation, abuse.  How it gave women control over their own bodies and lives.  “It’s brilliant, Ken.  I’ve never felt so—so _sure_ about a product.”

“Sounds it.”

“Right.  So, I’m thinking of making a pitch.  But if we get it, that would mean—”

“—you’d have to ditch Dow.  Conflict of interest.”

“Right.”

“Have you asked the higher-ups?”

“Of course not.  This conversation never happened.”

“Secret’s safe.”  Ken bit his lip, thinking.  “I could hint to Cynthia that Dow might shop around.  So it’s less of a blow if you bail.”

“But we don’t want to lose them if we decide _not_ to bail, either.”  Peggy paused, tapping her fingers on her desk.  “There _is_ another option.”

“What’s that?”

“There’s a boutique firm—Ponzi & Weill.  They’re small.  Headed up by Ira Sturtevant—did you ever meet Ira?  Used to work for BBDO.  Maybe you met him at the Clios?”

Ken shrugged; Peggy could hear the fabric of his shirt rustling faintly.  “I don’t recall,” he said.

“Well, Ira and this woman, Margaret Crane, they run the firm together.  Ms. Crane actually _invented_ the pregnancy test.”

“That so?”

“Used to work for Organon.  Apparently it was a hard sell.  Now she’s in ads.”

“Two Margarets on Madison Ave.  Is there room for the both of you?”

“Well, that’s just it,” said Peggy.  “I’d like to join her—join Ponzi & Weill.”

“Leave McCann for a no-name firm?”

“Leave McCann for a firm that _believes_ in the e.p.t.  That knows it inside and out.  We can pitch to Warner-Chilcott without conflict.”  She leaned back in her chair; Ken could hear it creak.  “And by the time I’m done with ’em, they won’t be a no-name firm.”

There was silence.  In the background, a small bell jingled.

“Kenny?”  What do you think?” Peggy prodded.

“It sounds like your mind’s already made up.”

Peggy frowned.  “Oh no.  I think you’re right.”  She flipped through the pages of her notebook with her thumb; Ken could hear the faintest shuffling of paper.  “I guess I should tell Stan,” she said.

“You’ll do great—wherever it is you end up.  You always do great.”

“Thanks, Kenny.”  Peggy smiled into the receiver.  “Shit!  I forgot the whole reason I was supposed to call you.”

Ken laughed.  “Why’s that, then?”

“You got any open rooms this weekend?  Bea got it into her head we need to go on a family honeymoon.”

“For you, Peg, we’ve always got an open room.”

Just as Ken hung up, a rubber ball came bouncing around the doorframe and rolled under his desk, Eddie and Henry not far behind.  Eddie lunged for the ball, but Ken intercepted.  “Can I play?” he asked, and pitched the ball back down the hall.

Squealing, Eddie and Henry ran after it, and Ken was left listening to the sound of bells and laughter.


	8. And everything is quiet now

Tammy knew she shouldn’t open the envelope.  The wide, flat, industrial-yellow envelope that had swished through the mail slot at least three hours before the mailman normally came by.  The envelope addressed to her father in thick black letters inked by a felt-tipped pen.

Tammy knew she shouldn’t open it.  She knew it contained secrets that didn’t belong to her.  And yet, her father had kept secrets from her: a brother she’d never known; a family she’d never imagined.  Because this brother, this mysterious person who maybe looked a little bit like her, had a family of his own.  Parents who’d adopted him, raised him into a person who maybe hated mushrooms as much as she and Dad did, or who maybe loved mushrooms, because maybe taste isn’t hereditary, maybe it’s learned.  Maybe his adoptive parents were mushroom farmers, and maybe her brother sat down to dinner every night and ate serving after serving of mushrooms with unbridled gusto.  Maybe he inhabited a world impossibly far removed from everything Tammy had ever known.

So Tammy opened the envelope with her slightly-longer thumbnail and shook its contents onto her bedroom floor, where she sat cross-legged, leaning against her bed, The Cure pulsing softly on an album she’d bought with her own money from babysitting and guitar gigs, even though her parents had offered to buy it for her for Christmas, because somehow if it had been given to her instead of earned, she feared the music might lose a little of its magic.

Inside the envelope was a packet of three pages stapled together.  The first page had a brief message typed in fading ink.  It said this:

 

_Mr. Campbell -_

_I have located your son.  You will find on the following page his personal details and whereabouts.  You will find as well an invoice for services rendered.  Please do not delay payment._

_Regards,_

_T. Sullivan, P.I._

 

The second page was handwritten in neat, tiny print on a sheet of graph paper.  It said this:

 

_NAME: Caleb Singer_

_DOB: 20 November, 1960 (aged 19)_

_PRIVATE RESIDENCE: [REDACTED PENDING RECEIPT OF PAYMENT]_

_PLACE OF EMPLOY: McCann-Erickson, Incorporated (MANHATTAN)_

 

The third page was a bill for $3,000 dollars.

Paperclipped to the bottom corner of the invoice was a single Polaroid snapshot.  It looked like it had been taken from behind a tree or lamppost, the blurry dark edges of something long and tall out-of-focus in the foreground.  A man was exiting through a shiny set of revolving doors.  He was skinny and scruffy.  His suit didn’t fit.  He had a thin dark beard and wore small, round glasses.  She couldn’t tell what colour his eyes were, but imagined they were blue, same as hers.  She thought he looked rather intelligent.  His necktie was striped blue and yellow.

 _Manhattan_ , the paper said in neat, tiny, handwritten print.  She stood and squinted, scanning her bookshelf for the almanac Mom had given her.  There wasn’t a huge bus depot in Wichita, but if she could make her way to Kansas City, she could hop on a bus or train to pretty much anywhere.  How much money had she saved up?  The contents of her piggy bank now strewn on the carpet, she counted coins and unfurled rolls of cash.  Wages, found pennies, birthday cheques.  It seemed like enough to get her to New York.  To her brother.

Tammy lifted the needle off _Seventeen Seconds_.  On tiptoes, she reached for the gym bag stashed on the top shelf of her closet.  In went shirts, socks, clean underwear, and her oldest pair of jeans, the holes on each knee patched over with brightly coloured scraps.  Her Walkman, of course, and a Julian Bream cassette.  A frayed copy of _Catcher in the Rye_ , which she’d read twice already.  It seemed appropriate, somehow, what with her running away.  She scooped up the stapled packet of papers and the Polaroid, folded them back inside the envelope, and slid the envelope into the gym bag with great care, as though it were sacred.

She never should have opened that envelope.  Too many secrets, too many questions.  Tammy remembered the time her parents never talked about, when she had lived at one house or the other, too young to understand why.  A birthday cake.  A bee sting.  Hushed, angry arguments behind closed doors.  Did her brother’s parents get along?  Did they love each other?  Did they love him?

Tammy scribbled a note for her parents, placed it in the centre of the kitchen table, and called a cab.


End file.
